


Electric

by wildlives



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gay Bar, M/M, Murder, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlives/pseuds/wildlives
Summary: The first time Fred had met Morse, he thought Morse was queer.





	Electric

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treewishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treewishes/gifts).



The first time Fred had met Morse, he thought Morse was queer.

Morse’s succession of fixations on women had discouraged that idea, but Fred still turned it over now and then, when Morse was cagy about his personal life or bonded strongly with a male suspect. After two years of working together, when Fred still found himself returning to the question, he had to admit to himself what it was really about: he fancied Morse, of all people, and now, of all times.

-

Fred had had a few assignations with men in his twenties, all with Win’s blessing. She saw it as harmless, when compared to a possible affair with a woman: a relationship borne of necessity, rather than passion, in her mind. She’d never completely understand; she’d never had a desire for a woman, as far as Fred knew. But her blessing was enough. And after a few short relationships with men, Fred had thought that was enough, too. He’d gone home to Win one night and had suddenly felt relieved that it was over; he could devote all his time to her and the kids now, if he didn’t want men anymore. He had scarcely looked at a man since 1955. 

Then an arrogant twig of a lad joined the Thames Valley Constabulary and Fred’s mind kept circling round. Did Morse like men? He seemed to like to look at them, covertly; did he like to touch, too? 

And he was a subordinate, no less. Fred spilled this all out to Win one night, while she was pinning up her hair before bed. 

He expected some gentle ribbing first. He didn’t get any. Win just raised her eyebrows at him in the mirror, a dear, familiar gesture, and said, “Fred, dear, I have eyes.”

“I haven’t been that obvious,” muttered Fred.

“I know you,” said Win. “You’re quite obvious to me.” She smiled when he huffed, and said sincerely, “I like Morse. He’s been good for you, you know. He’s been good for me, too; knowing he’s out there watching out for you.”

“And doesn’t it bother you?” said Fred, unexpectedly frustrated. “He’s barely older than Joan, and he’s a copper. I should have my head examined.”

“You have been utterly sensible in every one of your infatuations,” said Win firmly. “I’m quite sure you couldn’t mismanage this one if you tried.”

-

It seemed in the early months that Fred mismanaged Morse all the time; he’d never had so mercurial a subordinate that he actually wanted to keep on the job. It was some time after Morse’s father’s death that Fred realized that was just how Morse dealt with the world: to argue, then withdraw, then emerge to argue again. It was hard to imagine that Bright thought of Morse as oddly quiet. Around Fred, he never shut up.

That is, until the case with the electric eels. It was a murder of the sort Morse seemed to attract: a drowned, dry body in the trainyard traced back to a laboratory of marine geneticists on the Thames. 

The case was mostly long interviews with scientists, working towards a clear suspect, a man named Glover who was in professional competition with the victim. Glover had disappeared, not to be found at work or his apartment, but Thursday was sure they could run him to ground. 

One morning, while Morse and Thursday were discussing the case in Thursday’s office, Strange brought in a tip someone had called in overnight. “He’s a possible witness, says he was at the train station the night Warridge was dumped there,” said Strange. “The name’s Kenneth Rose. He lives in London but he said he’d be willing to come back here for an interview.”

“Constable Strange, why don’t you call him back,” said Morse right away.

Thursday cast an eye over him, not even sure what he was looking for. At the moment he spoke, Morse had looked as sharp as a cat that had spotted a bird, but now he raised his eyebrows at Thursday, innocently sipping his cold tea. “Sir?” he said.

“Could be something. Aren’t you at least curious yourself?” asked Thursday neutrally.

“I’m confident Strange will do a thorough interview,” said Morse. Strange smiled and straightened slightly; the man, as ever, craved Morse’s approval. Morse shrugged and continued, “But no, I’m not optimistic about an anonymous phone call. It could easily be just another ghoul trying to get their name in the papers.” Strange deflated slightly; Morse didn’t notice. “In fact,” added Morse, “I’ll ask Miss Frazil if she’s been told a similar story.” He drained the mug and set it down on Thursday’s desk. “I’d been meaning to ask her if the newspaper archives had any information on the genetics department.”

Thursday stared at the mug, offended. Morse scooped it back up and said, “I’ll just go visit Miss Frazil, then, sir,” and excused himself.

“That’s a bit unlike him,” said Strange, after he had gone. “Usually he’s keen to listen in on interviews. I bet he just wanted an afternoon break.”

“That’s certainly it,” said Thursday. “And Strange, I’ll take care of the Kenneth Rose interview myself. See if you can get a second interview out of Mrs. Pollard, the maid. Morse said she seemed withholding, and preferred you.”

Flattered, Strange left to do so, leaving Thursday with half a sandwich and a minor mystery.

-

Fred called Kenneth Rose at the number he had left. Fred took very specific pride in his ability to see anyone as a suspect, but Rose was relentlessly friendly and guileless, blundering pleasantly through all Fred’s subtle tests of his trustworthiness. 

“And why were you in the area that night, Mr. Rose?” asked Fred.

“I was singing at a bar I used to frequent, the Lighthouse,” said Rose. His voice was friendly, and Fred could hear the vocal training. “My old school mate runs the place now and he had me in for old times’ sake.”

“You’d performed there in the past?” said Fred.

“Many times, when I was in school. I was at St. John’s.”

Fred wrote this down. “I see. And had you ever seen Mr. Warridge at the Lighthouse? Either that night, or in your school days?”

“We had never been introduced,” said Rose, “but I knew he was an occasional patron. Not in my school days, but since I moved away. My friend, the owner, had mentioned him - nothing that would interest the police, merely that he was well-liked, generous with tips to the staff.”

“And that night?”

“I saw him across the room while I was singing,” said Rose. “It was only for a moment. He was talking, I couldn’t see who with. And when I looked back, he was gone.”

Thursday made a note. “And when did you find out he had been killed?”

“I had no idea until my friend gave me a ring yesterday. He said Paul Warridge had been found, and where, and I realized I must have just missed him - I was at that very station that night, on my way back to London. I thought I should call the police, although I know so little.”

“And do you know why Mr. Warridge was at that station?”

“No idea,” said Rose. “I got the impression that he was a local, but I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is,” said Fred. “His home was only a short bicycle ride from the Lighthouse. His bicycle was found outside the club where he’d left it.”

“So he’d no reason to be at the station,” said Rose.

Fred didn’t answer, and simply said, “We were hoping you could shed some light.” 

“I can’t. It’s so strange,” said Rose sadly. “I had never heard of anyone being angry with Paul Warridge for anything, and certainly not angry enough to kill.”

“What makes you think the killer was angry?” said Fred neutrally.

“Paul was gay, Inspector,” said Rose, with unusual calm; suspects were typically shifty and euphemistic about such matters, for reasons Fred understood all too well. “I thought his killing might have been because of that.”

Fred knew the script he was supposed to follow now that the words had been spoken: press Rose about his own sexuality, try to get names and connect them both to other local homosexuals. Derail the investigation hunting queers no matter their relevance to the actual crime. And Fred knew Rose knew it, too, and had found Warridge’s killing to be important enough to risk the gauntlet of interrogations. 

“Thank you, Mr. Rose,” said Fred instead, closing his notebook. “We’ll keep your number in case we have any follow-up questions.”

“I’ll be in Oxford until tomorrow evening,” said Rose, with what sounded like a smile. “Thank you for your work on this case, Inspector.”

-

On a hunch, Thursday called Dorothea Frazil’s office shortly after.

“How can I help you, Inspector?” she said, when her assistant finally connected him. “Before you begin, I must remind you that the paper must go to press every night as scheduled, regardless of any active murder investigations.”

“I understand, Miss Frazil,” said Thursday dryly. “I won’t be long. Did you speak to Morse this afternoon?”

“I did,” she said. Politely, but offering nothing else.

“About the Warridge murder?” prompted Thursday.

“Among other things,” she said. “You know, sometimes it’s nice to just catch up.”

“Even with the printing deadline looming,” said Thursday.

“Morse is a friend of mine, Inspector,” said Miss Frazil. “If you’re interested in becoming my friend, drinks will be involved, at a minimum. Was there something else you wanted to ask? Something Morse can’t tell you himself, perhaps?”

“Kenneth Rose,” said Thursday, impulsively. “Does the name ring a bell?”

“Is it a plant or a person? I’m not much of a botanist,” said Miss Frazil. However, Thursday could hear her dragging open a file drawer. 

“A person. Possible witness to our murder. Morse didn’t mention?”

Miss Frazil sounded distracted as she shuffled through files. “We mainly discussed the mating habits of eels.”

“Naturally,” said Thursday.

“Here,” she said, and resettled the receiver so he could hear her better. “Kenneth Rose is in my card catalog; he was apparently mentioned in two articles in the Mail in 1961. I don’t have the back copies here in my office and I really _do_ have to get my paper out, Inspector Thursday. I can have the articles brought to you tomorrow.”

“That would be much appreciated,” said Thursday. “Thank you, Miss Frazil.”

“Give Morse my best, please,” she said, and hung up.

So Morse hadn’t asked about Rose at all. He’d inquired after their prime suspects, the geneticists, instead. His priorities were right, but it wasn’t like Morse not to be thorough. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to ask about Rose because he already knew who he was. And Rose, Fred was now sure, was queer as well. He wondered if that was why Morse didn’t want to speak to him. 

Thursday didn’t cross paths with Morse for the rest of the day. Morse’s paperwork materialized on his desk at some point, and provided an accounting of his conversation with Frazil: discussion of eels, of the history of the genetics lab (brief and contentious), and of the neighborhood surrounding the train station (lately facing redevelopment). 

-

When Thursday unlocked his office door the next morning, he found a folder had been slid under it. It contained two mimeographed articles. 

**St. John’s Trivia Club Triumphs**

_Will Face Fierce Competition in Finals_

A Kenneth Rose was listed among the club members, but not interviewed.

**Lighthouse Tavern to Open in Osney Lane**

The article mostly described strong opposition from the neighborhood residents, but there was a quote attributed to Kenneth Rose, “an Oxford student, singer, and member of the City of Oxford Choir, who welcomes the opportunity to perform at the new tavern.” He described the peeved locals as “mad.” Like most Oxford students of Thursday’s acquaintance, he had pointlessly escalated the conversation.

Dorothea Frazil had written in red ink in the mimeograph’s margins: _Another famous St. John’s alumnus and choir member: Endeavour Morse._

-

When Morse arrived soon after, looking bleary-eyed, Thursday said, “Good news, Morse. I interviewed your ghoul, and he had some good information after all - apparently Warridge visited the Lighthouse shortly before he was found dead. You and I going to interview the owner now.”

Morse’s face screwed up with excuses, but before he could speak, Thursday interrupted, “Come on. To the car. You can eat your pastry on the way.”

Once in the car, Thursday said, “Apparently you and Rose are acquainted.” Morse swallowed his bite of pastry, looking startled, and didn’t respond. “Not surprising, given he’s a former Oxford student. And unfortunately it’s also not bloody surprising that you lied to me about it.”

“Sir,” Morse protested.

“If you have any information relevant to the case, I need to know it,” said Thursday. “And so does Strange. He’s been working hard on this case and you’ve done him a disservice keeping this from him.”

“We know who did it,” said Morse, exasperated. “It was Glover, who killed Warridge because he was about to expose his falsified lab results! _Rose_ didn’t kill anyone, for God’s sake. He didn’t even see the body, according to Strange.”

“Even so,” said Thursday. “You need to tell me what you know about him.”

“Nothing,” said Morse, throwing up his hands. “He was a friend of some friends when I was still at Oxford. I think he rowed crew.”

“You were in the choir together,” prompted Thursday.

Morse turned to give him an appalled look. Thursday said, “I asked Miss Frazil for any records on a Kenneth Rose. It seems he spoke to the paper while you were still in school.”

“We were in the choir together,” Morse ground out. “We met a few times. My tenuous connection to him has _nothing_ to do with this murder, with why he was in Oxford, nothing. I knew this and I merely didn’t want to see him again, sir. I wanted Strange to take his statement and for us all to be done with it. There’s no more wretched interruption to a case than when I have to make small talk with someone who can’t believe I’m a policeman now.”

After this burst of honesty, Morse slouched in his seat and stared out the window, angrily chewing the last of his pastry. But even though everything Morse had said this time had been true, Fred felt a greater truth being withheld. Well, it could wait until another day.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to him one last time,” said Thursday, unfazed. “And in the future, just tell me or Strange the reason you’re avoiding someone. Although you’re always obligated to _do your job_ , accommodations can be made for awkward ex-friendships. We’ve all had those conversations at some point.”

“Have we?” said Morse. “Do your former friends still tease you about childhood mistakes and ask where your tenure is?”

“Many of my friends from school died in the war,” said Thursday bluntly. “The ones still alive can be tossers, but no, they don’t ask if I have tenure.”

Morse sighed, still folded into the corner of the seat. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding somewhat abashed, but also annoyed about it, which was typical. Fred’s heart surged. “I’ve made a simple problem worse than it already was.”

“You certainly have,” said Thursday. “Now eat your pastry.”

-

“Of course I heard about Paul,” said Mr. Tobin, the Lighthouse’s owner. “I read in the paper yesterday that he was found dead.”

Mr. Tobin’s office was very cluttered, with stacks of paper on the floor and bookcases stacked two-deep with ledgers. When Fred and Morse had arrived he’d offered them tea and his licenses, which were all in order, he said. Morse had explained that they were only here about the murder and he had relaxed somewhat. 

“Did you see Paul the night he was found?” asked Morse. 

“He was only here for a few minutes,” said Tobin. He started to look nervous again. “It was normal for him to stop in - nothing out of the ordinary. I didn’t call it in because the police didn’t come looking here. And there’s nothing but goodwill here among my customers. The trouble in his life came from the lab.”

Thursday interjected. “Had you met any of his coworkers?”

Tobin shook his head. “They wouldn’t come here, Inspector. It was one of the things Paul liked about the Lighthouse: it was a world apart from his professional life.”

“Did Paul speak to anyone while he was here that night?” asked Thursday.

“A man I didn’t know,” said Tobin. “Perhaps a tourist or another friend of Paul’s, I don’t know. They spoke for just a few minutes and left by the back door without buying any drinks.”

Morse pulled a photograph out of his coat pocket: a picture of the current lab employees lined up in front of their largest eel tank. “The man Paul spoke to, do you see him here?”

Tobin squinted at the picture for a moment then suddenly pointed, tapping the photo with one finger. “Him,” he said, pointing to Glover. “That’s the man. And from this angle, I think I’ve seen him here before. He always leaves quickly. I thought he might be afraid to be seen.”

Thursday nodded. “Do you think there’s a chance he’ll be back tonight?”

“It’s been a few days, so he might,” said Tobin. “Unless he was only ever here to see Paul. Do you think it was him that killed him?”

“We won’t know until we interview him,” said Thursday. 

-

Thursday let his constables know that they would be doing shifts at the Lighthouse until Glover was apprehended. He allowed a minimum of groaning and crude jokes before he cut them off and gave them the list of names and dates. Thursday had appointed himself and Morse to go there tonight. Because they were the leads on the case, but also, Fred admitted to himself, because he wanted to observe Morse in a gay bar. He told himself he merely needed a few questions about Morse answered and then he could move on if he needed to. And in the meantime, they could catch a killer.

Morse was able to look like a disheveled student rather than a copper; in fact, it was more or less his natural state. Thursday carried his profession with him, though, and he felt eyes on them as he and Morse hovered in a corner of the bar, watching the door. 

“I look terribly out of place,” said Morse. “I think you should have chosen someone else.”

“It’s not you they’re staring at,” said Thursday. “It’s me. You could be any patron here. They’re just blokes, Morse.”

Morse glanced around the room and then over at Thursday. “This is a gay bar, sir,” said Morse. “It doesn’t matter what either of us looks like. They can tell we’re not here for the same thing they are.”

Thursday was about to respond when Morse flinched. “Glover,” he said, turning abruptly toward the bar. “He came in the back. If he sees us before we can get to him we’ll never catch him.”

Thursday turned away too, but they needed to act quickly; just hunching by the bar wasn’t going to be enough to distract Glover’s eye.

It seemed inevitable: Thursday looked toward Morse and saw the frantic look in his eyes, his mouth already dropping to Thursday’s, but he was silent, frozen. Best to get it over with, and let the lad blame him for it later. 

“Come here,” said Thursday roughly, and pulled Morse toward him.

Morse folded into his space without stumbling and was suddenly flush against Thursday’s chest. Thursday kissed Morse once, curling a hand around the base of his skull. That ought to help sell it. 

Morse gave a low gasp against his mouth. Thursday drew back to give Morse some breathing room, let him react, but Morse grabbed his coat and pulled Fred back in, kissing him roughly, once, twice, again. Fred gave up on pretense. He slid his arms around Morse’s waist and coaxed him into slowing down. Between one soft press of mouths and the next, he murmured, “Has he seen us?”

Morse lowered his head to rest briefly on Fred’s shoulder, glancing in one direction as Fred looked in the other. Glover was by the bar with his back to them now, only a few meters away. Fred tapped Morse, nodded to the suspect, and they rushed into motion.

Cuffing Glover was the work of moments. Morse read him his rights as Thursday manhandled him out of the bar, regretting the stir it caused among the patrons; they had only been trying to have a nice night, but trouble like that followed murderers no matter where they went. Their car was waiting outside. Thursday locked Glover in it and called a PC to deliver him to lockup until he could be interviewed in the morning.

“Sir, I don’t mind taking him in,” said Morse, who, in fact, did mind being kept out at all hours; he was trying to avoid talking to Fred any longer tonight.

Fred leaned on the car, inside which Glover was cursing. The sidewalk had quickly emptied when they had brought Glover out. “I think we need to talk,” said Fred quietly.

Morse looked unhappy. Fred’s heart twinged looking at him, but as with any interrogation, he had to continue. “Was Kenneth Rose your lover?”

Morse flushed. “Lover is a strong word,” said Morse, equally quietly. He fell silent, but when Fred didn’t speak again, he reluctantly added: “We saw each other a few times. We came here once, actually. I’m not even sure he remembers me. But I didn’t want to see him again. This isn’t . . . The sort of thing I do.” He looked at Fred, seeking understanding.

“It is the sort of thing I do,” said Fred. He watched surprise cross Morse’s face. “Or I used to, at least. Mrs. Thursday and I have an understanding, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It’s none of my business,” said Morse quickly. He had been wondering.

“Before I send you home,” said Thursday, “I want to make sure you know that none of this will affect your job, or mine. No matter your feelings on what just transpired. You’re a good constable, and I can set aside all feelings otherwise; I hope you can, too.”

“Sir,” said Morse. He looked overcome. Fred gave him a moment to sort through his feelings. “I know you wouldn’t fire me,” said Morse. “But do you mean to say you have feelings for me?”

He looked so hopeful and open, even as he flushed and looked away. Fred was a fool no matter what he said; a fool for feeling this way and a fool for waiting to act on it.

“I do,” said Thursday. Morse broke into a smile and Fred couldn’t help but smile in return. “I hope that once this case has been dealt with that we can discuss what that means in more depth.”

“Discuss,” said Morse. “Like we did this evening?”

A black car pulled up next to them; it was the PC coming to collect Glover. “I hope so,” said Thursday. Morse broke into a sunny smile, then tried to suppress it in front of the constable. “Now get yourself home. I know you’re not far from here. And deliver your report tomorrow afternoon - it’s awfully late.”

Morse smiled and turned, disappearing into the shadows as the PC reached Thursday. Next time Thursday might kiss him goodbye if there was no one around, he realized. Win would want Morse over for dinner again - and Thursday could kiss him after that, too. Fred would never be free of Morse after all, and he no longer wanted to be. He had everything he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide!


End file.
